


No Light Spring Fancy

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Kiss, Garden chores, Hilarity Shared, Impressive Illustration, Invitation to Elevenses, M/M, Mating habits of Bufo bufo with Minor Herpetological Inexactitude, Mouse guards, Plumply-rounded hobbit bottom, Rating Blurred Somewhere Between Metaphor and Natural History, Regrettably Inaccurate Foreshadowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Another wonderful drawing by my beloved beta, Notabluemaia - thank you, dear!</p></blockquote>





	No Light Spring Fancy

It is mid-morning on a sharply shiny day at the very start of Rethe, and Mr Frodo Baggins emerges briskly from his back door. He is clearly expecting to find his gardener in a position to answer him, for he comes with an invitation upon his lips. 

‘Sam? Sam, the tea’s made, do come and—’ Frodo stops abruptly, and swallows hard.

It simply is not _fair_ , taking a hobbit by surprise like this. Here he is, all set to call Samwise Gamgee in for elevenses in the most innocent manner imaginable (especially when one considers how very much less than innocent he would _prefer_ to be, were it not out of the question). And there is Sam tempting him in a way which may be equally innocent in intent, but which, in its effect upon his employer, is little short of devastating. 

As Frodo advances to the corner where Sam’s attention currently lies, what greets him is not the usual cheery, ‘Be right with you, Mr. Frodo, sir’ accompanied by a swift smile and a rubbing together of his hands to clear them of excess soil before he washes them at the pump. (It is undeniable that this slow friction has also begun to affect Frodo in ways of which Samwise must remain unaware). Sam has not even heard him coming, and the sight which now disturbs Mr Baggins’ equilibrium so unfairly is not Sam’s face. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Sam is busy up against the wall, and his head and shoulders are almost hidden by a draping shrub, despite the fact that Sam has obviously pruned out a large amount of it—judging from the heap in the nearby barrow—and has pushed the rest aside, out of his way. In another time and place, Frodo knows these bright green stems with their tiny clasping leaves to be winter jasmine. It almost coats this side of the smial, and its shower of winter gold is one of the sights of Bag End’s garden, not to mention its cheering seasonal presence in vases on sills and tables within.

In a situation such as this, however, the jasmine, either in full winter glory or its present state of curtailment, can register but faintly on Frodo’s attention, for he is transfixed by the sight of Sam on his knees. Or to be more accurate, he is totally transfixed by the presentation—high and proud for his inspection—of a seductive offering of elevated rump. The very epitome of plumply-rounded hobbit bottom, its perfect proportions are marred only by their concealment under a sturdy herringbone tweed serge. Such blatant largesse might be thought inviting to a positively indecent degree, were not its owner so oblivious to the picture that he presents and completely free from any such wile. He is merely kneeling to some requisite task, murmuring quietly, clearly not addressing Frodo. Nor anyone, other than—

 _Goodness!_ Frodo closes his mouth quickly, lest his reaction be audible. 

Sam is admonishing a pair of toads who, it appears, live in the shadows beneath the jasmine. A very _paired_ pair of toads. 

He is chivvying them toward the pond, gently but firmly, though they seem far more interested in their own affairs (Is it not Spring?) and are reluctant to obey. One toad is comfortably settled on top of the other, though underneath seems no bad place to be—even at this distance, Frodo is sure that she (the larger, in a softly buxom sort of way) has a somewhat smug look about her. The suitor—her _husband_ , he hopes, in view of the rather triumphant expression on his broad and warty face—appears content merely to have taken possession, and is making no move to … further his cause. As it were. 

Frodo’s toes curl tightly and his belly clenches, though certain other parts react in a rather more expansive manner. He is made suddenly and insistently aware that were he fortunate enough to be offered such an opportunity—he has to close his eyes for a moment against the vision of Sam, so fortuitously positioned, before him—his participation would be extremely enthusiastic and considerably more active than that of the slothful toad. Perhaps, he thinks charitably, said creature has indeed performed his duties by (and on) his mate, and is merely resting from his labours, preparatory to demonstrating his amatory prowess yet again. And again? For all Frodo knows they may have been thus engaged for days on end—he has heard such a thing of toads; which would go some way, he realises, to explaining the smugness of the one and the seeming exhaustion of the other. 

_Oh, but it would be more than worth it!_ he thinks, with more than a modicum of envy for the extended activity, though definitely not for the partner.

By the time that Frodo has collected himself sufficiently to open his eyes once more, Sam has seen the toads on their way, and resumed his original task. Frodo watches now, enthralled, as he wriggles forward, and that coveted bottom waggles deliciously high to left— _waggle_ —and to right— _waggle_ —and again— _waggle_ —and again. The movement ceases, and there is a rattling, scraping sort of sound, luckily loud enough to cover Frodo’s loudly indrawn breath, sharp with covetous yearning. Then Sam mutters a word which Frodo rather suspects he would not wish his Gaffer to hear. The waggling progress is reversed—losing absolutely _nothing_ of its charm thereby—until Sam emerges from his verdant jasmine drapery, and (disappointingly) sits back on his heels.

And all this before elevenses.

Frodo realises at last that he is staring in an immoderately possessive fashion, and forces himself to transfer his gaze (perforce now resting, almost as appreciatively, on Sam’s back) to the barrow-load of prunings, as being about as un-arousing as it is possible for anything to be which has been hallowed by the touch of those broad, capable hands.

One of Frodo’s fantasies (one of quite several, it might by now be recognised) is to receive from those very hands the kind of strong but tender attention he sees them devote to flowers, leaves, and seedlings, to domestic pets and animals of all types; to tool handles, mugs, knives and forks, to stone and wood and all manner of good things—to _weeds_ for goodness’ sake! Sam is a very _touching_ kind of hobbit—as if he understands the nature of a thing by handling it—but he does not, to Frodo’s constant and considerable disappointment, touch his master, for it would not be _proper_. 

Frodo has sunk to the level of attempting to devise situations— _any_ situation will suffice—in which Sam will have to touch him. Properly, in both senses of the word; or better still, ever so slightly _im_ properly—sufficient to answer Frodo’s fantasy needs, for a while, without any attempt to disturb the even tenour of Sam’s life. Such casual brushes as Frodo could contrive, though, have been too fleeting for any kind of satisfaction, and he has begun to wonder seriously as to whether Sam would think him truly a Mad Baggins, should he offer to shake hands with him when he arrives each morning and again before he departs for Bagshot Row at the close of the day’s labours.

He has, of course, shaken hands many times with Sam in the past—on each of his birthdays (but Astron is such a long way off) and especially when he became a tween (multiple ceremonial salutations for such landmarks, though Sam will not come of age for another five years, yet); for the prize-giving at last year’s Four Farthings Show, at which Sam’s horticultural skills won him so many rosettes (the show is not until late summer); and not least when Sam was accorded the title ‘Bowler of the Year’ at the close of his very first season with the Hobbiton XI (this year’s cricket has not even begun in earnest, yet). 

Yet all of these instances have a single sad failure in common: at the time of their occurrence, Frodo had not yet admitted (to himself, for no-one else must know lest he shame Sam with so uninvited a passion) how deeply he is in love. He had therefore failed either to appreciate their significance or to wallow unashamedly in the longed-for sensation of Sam’s skin, firm and slightly rough against his own. His mind’s eye still sees his own soft, pale and uninteresting fingers nestled in Sam’s sun-browned, muscular clasp. If he tries hard, he can _almost_ feel that hold, gentle but secure around him, and he _knows_ those work-worn callouses must rasp caressingly against his palms, awakening shivers that trickle—

‘Mr Frodo?’ Sam has turned now, aware at last of his master’s presence, and is regarding him with a somewhat puzzled expression. 

Frodo has the feeling that he has just lost a noticeable amount of time, mooning over Sam’s hallowed jasmine clippings.

He pulls himself together, realising not for the first time that he feels to be doing just that: rounding up his wayward senses, and most particularly his recalcitrant flesh, into some semblance of order. He clears his throat, and is proud to hear a tone which might almost be taken for normal, when he asks, ’What in Middle-earth were you doing under there, Sam?’

Sam grins, and the bright shine of the day is suddenly nothing to the radiance in his face. 

The Recalcitrant promptly becomes the Veritably Insistent. 

‘I was clearing Mr Bungo’s tubes, sir!’ Sam says, with another grin for the absurdity of his reply.

‘His tubes, Sam?’ It’s such a funny word that Frodo’s squeaky laugh doesn’t seem at all out of place, and Sam begins to laugh too, as he gets up from the path. Frodo lets go of his naughty thoughts, to float on the amusement in that wholesome giggle. 

Then Sam gasps, ‘The mouse guards need renewing,’ which strikes them both as so exquisitely humorous that the laughter threatens to overwhelm them completely. And when Sam manages to choke out, ‘They’re nestin’ in there!’ they must clutch at one another lest they fall over, and one minute they are chortling breathlessly in each other’s arms, with tears of mirth on their cheeks, the next—

The next they are suddenly sober, levity snuffed out like a candle flame.

Here they stand, chests rising and falling as one, and Frodo knows that his breathlessness now is because Sam is still holding him and he is holding onto Sam as though— _because_ —he can never let him go. For Sam’s eyes are so near now, golden glints afloat on their green, in the tears that shine still in his lashes. And Sam’s mouth is closer, warm and enticing, and closer yet—is touching his, so softly… 

The kiss is hesitant at first, disbelieving—but as it lengthens and comes to surety, it answers its own question, and Frodo knows at last that Sam has wanted this as much as he. A purr of his throat invites Sam in, to a leisurely tangle of tongues that’s as slow and sweet and clinging as honey from the comb. The burn of desire flickers through him less hurriedly, now, and the fleeting concern, that he might be driven to ravish Sam if ever they should come to this, dissolves in the lingering pleasure of their kiss—his desperation melting into a long-spun promise of shared delight. 

There will be time and enough for deeper loving, when time has taught each rise and hollow of mouth and lip; when Frodo has his fill of fingers threading this crisp thatch of curl, matchless beneath his touch; when Sam knows the wiry muscle within this shirt as he knows the earth beneath his hands; when raw wonder yields by little, as yield it must and will, to the need for closer touching. Then, the simmer of fire that runs through them will rouse to fullest glow, flamed by the caress of skin to naked skin. Then, they will slide together as one—the one they will always be.

And for that they have all the time in the world…

~~~

**Author's Note:**

> Another wonderful drawing by my beloved beta, Notabluemaia - thank you, dear!


End file.
